


a liszt of everything i love about you

by minorseventh



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Kubo Orchestra, M/M, symphony au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-09-21 05:30:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9533810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minorseventh/pseuds/minorseventh
Summary: Yuuri's a violinist and Victor's the concertmaster, and it's not just the love of music that brings them together. (Actually, it's mostly Phichit and Christophe.)♫♪Each night’s concert is thrilling, from the moment Victor walks onstage in his tailored suit and classy bowtie to the final encore cheers. The program is never identical, and the music seems to evolve mid-performance. The solos are tantalizing; the changes are subtle so that you don’t notice the variation until it’s already swept past you. Experts attempt to analyze the different pieces, to fit the sections together, but find it too mesmerizing to decode.Yuuri stands up with the orchestra and puts on his brightest smile. Even if he can’t see them clearly without his glasses, he can tell the audience is exhilarated, and as a result, so is he.This is what Yuuri signed up for.This is the stuff Kubo Orchestra is made of.





	1. Prelude

“Um, correct me if I heard you wrong, Phichit, but did you just suggest I go watch a rerun of the King and the Skater 2 with you tonight?”

Phichit gives Yuuri a small, albeit slightly confused ‘what can you do?’ smile. “Hey, you can’t blame me for wanting to watch it again if the theater’s offering half-price popcorn. Some offers just can't be refused.”

Yuuri looks adamant. “Do you know what day it is? Let me tell you what day it is. Today, the Kubo Orchestra is performing here in Detroit. It’s their debut act adding Orchestra Hall to their regular touring roster. Today is the first time I get to see them play live in _front row seats_.”

“But of course!” Phichit declares, clearing his throat and grabbing onto an imaginary microphone. “Today is the annual Concertmaster season special—a full program’s worth of Nikiforov solos. And you, my dear friend, in your front row seat, shall finally see and hear his incredible talent all _up close and personal_ -”

“I…” Yuuri deflates slightly. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

“-and experience your equivalent of simultaneous musical epiphany and idol orgasm,” Phichit finishes.

Well, there’s no point in denying anything. Yuuri finds himself watching the blinking traffic lights down at street level with a small smile. The flat feels cooler all of a sudden.

“So,” Phichit says, “even after I had forgotten this Very Important Day, do you want still me to be your plus one?”

“I almost thought you’d abandon me for the King and the Skater!”

A shutter goes off and immortalizes his excited expression. (“Guess who’s dragging me to go see Victor Nikiforov! #YuuriKatsuki #FriendsNightOut #KuboOrchestra #VIPseats #thanksCiaoCiao.”)

 

* * *

 

The standing ovation has been ongoing for the past two minutes, and the thunderous intensity of the applause shows no signs of dying down.

The show itself was, as promised, absolutely stunning. Kubo conducted a stellar program that featured the best music ever written for violin, and Victor Nikiforov, as promised, did not disappoint. The audience was teased by Sibelius’s soaring concerto cadenza and intense technical sequences, which despite being the opening act had garnered praise typically reserved for a final piece from an audience enthralled.

The after-intermission curtain revealed Nikiforov alone onstage, framed by unoccupied chairs and the silhouette of a grand piano. He proceeded to execute an inconceivable take on Paganini’s most infamous Caprice, what critics would soon call the new keystone of violin playing, and was next joined onstage by Seung-gil Lee on piano to accompany Schubert’s simple, classic Serenade.

And it ended on a chamber adaptation of Vittorio Monti’s legendary Czárdás, a lively Hungarian gypsy dance, which the soloist did immeasurable justice.

The night has been an unequivocal beautiful zenith of Victor Nikiforov, violin playing, and the whole of classical music.

Yuuri can’t tell whether his head or his heart is about to explode first. He can’t process if the mesmerizing playing or the high-definition hair flip before the bow is giving him trouble breathing. Honestly, Victor Nikiforov is a living, breathing tour de force, and seeing him so close in real life… it’s indescribable.

(Or maybe it is: whatever Phichit had called it earlier? A “music-induced orgasm” or something? That  probably best describes it.)

It was wholly beyond bingeing endless YouTube playlists in his bedroom.

It was like falling in love, again, but to a deeper, irreversible depth.

It redefined the reason Yuuri had always wanted to audition for Kubo Orchestra; in fact, it amplified his desire a hundred times over. Kubo accepted only the best of the best, and it showed in their performance today. _This_ was the kind of level he wanted to play at, wanted to submerge himself in, and wanted to waltz through until his bow snapped cleanly in half.

He had never heard Schubert’s Serenade played so perfectly before. Phichit always laughed at him for liking the tune; as trainees to be professional musicians, the melody was as overplayed as Happy Birthday. In fact, with furrowed eyebrows, the pianist seemed almost annoyed to be playing it. But the look of utterly melancholic euphoria on Victor’s face was exactly the reason why Yuuri loved it so much. As the piece found its final chords, he found himself crying alongside the piano arpeggios. He could have sworn that Victor smiled at him, but in that instant, with bated breath, anything could have been possible.

No wonder the audience was still clapping. If anything, the reverberations in Orchestra Hall were now threatening to bring down the house, now that Mitsurou Kubo herself and the rest of the orchestra have returned onstage for final cheers.

Yuuri decides to take this opportunity to gush, almost shouting against the din of the crowd so that Phichit can hear. Unsurprisingly, half his comments are about the platinum-haired phenomenon smiling up on stage in front of him.

“His playing is so effortless, it’s perfect,” Yuuri cries indignantly. “And it all translates to such vigor and beauty…! Can’t you feel the energy up to the mezzanine?”

“Shut up and turn around,” Phichit says. “I know that they said no pictures, but I think I can sneak in a few selfies while everyone’s still entranced by ol’ Nikiforov.”

(The chosen photo is angled up just enough to feature a beaming Yuuri and Phichit as well as the first row of performers. Later, it gets captioned “Now we’re rethinking our dreams to audition for Kubo Orch! #TooGood #AmazedMusicNerds #CommemorativePhoto #ThanksForThePhotobombVictorNikiforov” with a long string of emojis. Phichit’s too busy choosing a filter to mask the stage light glare to notice there’s also a pair of cyan eyes smiling right at the camera.)

 

* * *

 

It takes a while for the crowd to dissipate.

Yuuri finds himself being hauled to an afterparty he didn’t know came with the VIP bundle.

“You’re a professional violinist,” Phichit says, matter-of-factly. “You need to meet a bunch of people if you want your talent to be recognized.”

It takes Phichit only about three minutes to drag Yuuri to Paradise Lounge (through a complex backstage network that he has somehow memorized like the back of his hand) and then proceed to ditch him. Yuuri manages to congratulate Leo and Guang-Hong on their show before Phichit then drags _them_ out on the town, armed with a selfie stick and a brilliant smile.

By then, the reception lounge is filling up with Kubo musicians and orchestra affiliates basking in the afterglow of a great performance, buzzing with untapped energy.

Yuuri ends up loosening his tie and leaving his suit jacket draped over the back of a chair, hailing a passing waiter for a flute of champagne. A bit of liquid courage shall be essential if he intends to get to know a few people here today.

“You Only Live Once” is playing from the speakers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victor Nikiforov Concertmaster program, performed at the beautiful Orchestra Hall in Detroit, Michigan:
> 
> [Sibelius violin concerto](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YsbrRAgv1b4%20)  
> [Paganini Caprice no. 24](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gpnIrE7_1YA%20)  
> [Ständchen (Serenade) by Schubert](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WQw1s6YAdVU%20%20%20)  
> [Czárdás by Vittorio Monti](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J5tIWKtE9JE%0A)


	2. Capriccio

Wait. Are those trumpet players _laughing_ at him?

Well isn’t that lovely.

Yuuri can’t help but feel like his first week in Kubo Orchestra is… well, the slightest bit unnerving.

Inwardly, he feels a little betrayed: Emil from orientation had claimed that the Orchestra was like a giant family, always looking out for one another no matter the circumstances. Emil himself had been all smiles and hugs, but maybe he was the only one who lived by his philosophy, because the words definitely didn’t account for those other annoying woodwinds who look like they would be rolling on the floor laughing if not for the chairs and stands barraging their way. Even Leo (from all the way in the back row, mind you) has taken his hand out of his French horn to cover his smile.

It’s not like Yuuri did anything wrong! It’s totally not his fault! He was trying to play his very best! He just got so obsessed with the music that…

(Well, okay. There’s no evading this one; the truth _is_ the truth. No excuse or love for Tchaikovsky would ever change that. Plus, the whole orchestra would make up nearly a hundred witnesses against him: not the best odds in court, to be honest.)

Here’s what went down: it took sixteen solid measures for the Yuuri to realize Kubo had cut off the passage they were practicing. By the time he looked up, a good half minute had elapsed and every member of the orchestra was participating in a try not to cringe challenge. Or a try not to laugh contest. It depended on the individual.

Of course, none of those reactions can compare to the concertmaster’s.

The millisecond Yuuri notices Victor Nikiforov looking over, he feels his face heat up, and immediately looks down for fear of being blinded by the man’s sheer brilliance. For a minute, he’s once again starstruck, simply awed to be reminded of who he managed to be in the same world-famous orchestra as, before he remembers why Victor is eyeing him in the first place.

Instantly, Yuuri wishes he were invisible, or shorter, or could hide behind his glasses, or just not a violinist in the first place, or _anything_ other than be judged by Victor Nikiforov. He imagines Victor’s scrutiny like a seam ripper tearing apart the little self-confidence he once had, leaving him a shredded ragdoll of limbs and fibers.

It’s mortifying, but Yuuri doesn’t have the courage to look up and check if he’s still being stared down by his peers. In fact, Yuuri is certain that he will never be able to look at any sheet music ever again, much less show his face in rehearsal. Perhaps he should order a breathable mask, or get plastic surgery, or become a percussionist—they always hide in the back of the room, don’t they?

Then, as if the fog has passed over the rest of the orchestra, Kubo starts up the Capriccio again, launching straight into the trombone hemiola mini-fanfare interlude. Victor leads the strings in an intensely resonant chorus line. Nobody seems to spare Yuuri a second thought. Kubo herself actually might be smiling more up on the podium.

Still, Yuuri hesitates at every entrance, watches Kubo every other measure, and plays every dynamic marking softer than written. He only realizes his posture is horrid when a perfectly coiffed violist (seriously, how did that guy get his hair so sharp and flat?) a few seats over tells him to quit slumping. The hours seem to drone on like the recurring tambourine entrance errors, and the vivacity of the piece is lost on him; for the first time in his life, he finds himself a restless listener.

When rehearsal ends that day, Yuuri gets up and all but scrambles offstage, music in one hand, bow and violin in the other. Quickly grabs his case. Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t cry, even though the tears threaten to spill over. Doesn’t notice the three pairs of eyes that choose to studiously watch him exit (rather than pay attention to Kubo as she reads through announcements for solo auditions and chamber practice times).

 

* * *

 

 

From the corner of his favorite practice room, Yuuri hears insistent knocking. He considers what little he has on hand to bribe the intruder away when the door opens without his consent.

“Hey, guess what? I brought fries!”

Phichit invites himself in, careful not to smear any grease from the paper bag onto the music stand, and plops down next to Yuuri. He opens the bag and lets his friend indulge. The two share a companionable silence reminiscent of all those former failed competitions and horrible recitals back in Detroit.

“You know,” Phichit remarks, “I think they were all just in awe of how sensitively you played.”

Yuuri laughs hollowly. “It was the worst first impression in the world. What good is any musician if they can’t follow the conductor?”

“Well, I suppose it depends! How many conductors does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”

Yuuri stops, fries halfway to his mouth, utterly taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“The answer is… wait for it… nobody knows! Because nobody ever watches them!” Phichit manages an Adam Sandler-worthy finger gun smile combo, the same pose he strikes every time he pulls out his arsenal of incredible music jokes.

“Phichit,” Yuuri groans. “Not helping.”

“I stand by my original point, though. You keep selling yourself short. Gotta admit, in that moment, your soli line blew me away. Actually,” Phichit mock stage-whispers, “I’ll bet you the rest of those fries that you blew away Kubo, _and_ Victor Nikiforov, too.”

“If only!”

“You just don’t get it, do you?! I’m being completely serious! Here, replay that bit that stuck out in rehearsal.”

“You already heard me back there.”

“But you haven’t! I’ll record it back for you, and you can see for yourself.”

Yuuri spares a glance at his violin and gives in. “I have always loved Tchaikovsky’s violin harmonies, you know? Celestino worked with me on this excerpt before, and I just really wanted to prove myself today. Guess that didn’t happen, huh?” He shrugs, picks up the instrument and plays a few warm-up scales—D Major, G Major, C Major, F Major, and ends up just running through the entire circle of fifths due to force of habit.

Phichit looks on approvingly, spontaneously taking a few (LOOK AT THIS BOI #KatsukiLiveInConcert #LookOutNikiforov #He’sMyBestFriend) photos, and making ‘go on’ motions with his free hand.

Closing his eyes, Yuuri lets himself go. His fingers play by muscle memory, slowly changing tones, shifting positions, letting a natural vibrato resonate around the room.  The music is made between the notes, legato stretched like spun taffy.

He finishes swiftly, the echo of the sound hanging in the air like a morning reveille over a hazy lake.

There’s a weird sound outside the door. Yuuri reckons it might’ve been… a high-pitched gasp, or a sudden intake of breath, or a shoe scuffing on linoleum? He’s not sure. Phichit doesn’t seem to notice it—he’s too busy doing something that looks suspiciously like uploading to Instagram, which is something Yuuri cannot allow.

“That’s not going online,” he says, lunging for the phone.

“What—no! I wasn’t going to– I would never–”

Yuuri gives him a stern, slightly fatigued look.

It takes half a minute before Phichit finally concedes he _was_ originally planning to make it his Snapchat story (“But I was only going to leave it there for, like, an hour tops!”).

“Wouldn’t that help me bury the shameful evidence,” Yuuri intones sarcastically. “Imagine how many people your video would remind of my failures.”

“You’re right… I did get almost everybody here to follow me on orientation day… so that could’ve been deadly.”

They laugh it over, just like old times.

 

* * *

 

 

The first thing Yuuri immediately notices is that neither Kubo nor Victor is at practice.

Yuuri feels a bit more at ease since the wind players also aren’t present: in a sense, he still hasn’t gotten over that… incident from last week. Only one person has brought it up since then (some guy with a cheeky, devilish smile who had passed by in the halls), but… well, some insecurities just won’t shut themselves up in one’s mental file folder.

The orchestra been divided up into sectionals. Today, the violins, violas, cellos, and basses are being coached together by two notorious guests, and Yuuri is itching to get to work.

World-famous string guru Yakov Feltsman looks impatient at the front of the room.

“We’re working on that Tchaikovsky today. I believe it’s Opus 45?” He shuffles the scores around on the stand. “Yes… although, on a personal note, I always didn’t like how this was called the _Italian Capriccio_ , because it is definitely a Russian masterwork. I respect working with the styles of different regions, but oftentimes–”

“Get on with it, Yakov.”

Yuuri’s head snaps up. Even if the remark wasn’t directed at him, he feels a touch intimidated by its force. He can’t identify the speaker, though.

He gets his answer soon enough:

“Why don’t you start us off with an A to tune, then, Yura?”

And that’s a voice he recognizes. It’s Lilia Baranovskaya, infamous classical stickler and musical historian-slash-interpreter, lecturer of so many of the goddamn instructional how-to DVDs that Celestino kept in his library (and had forced Yuuri to listen to so long ago—by now, he finds the timbre of her voice akin to a monotonous wooden metronome). She’s sitting in the back of the room.

The boy who proceeds to stand up in the first row—a violinist named Yura, apparently?—has shoulder-length blonde hair, and doesn’t appear to be tall, but holds himself with ramrod-straight military posture.

For a moment, Yuuri wonders what language a name like “Yura” is derived from, but his thoughts scatter as the people around him put their instruments into place to tune. Yuuri follows immediately, using the small dials to refine his instrument (it’s flat).

Since everybody has a professional ear, it takes about ten seconds for the entire ensemble to resonate at the same pitch, and for the mystery boy to promptly sit down.

Yakov holds up his baton. “The first entrance for the strings, please, after the introduction.”

The strings plow through the Capriccio, tediously counting the gaps where the wind players usually fill in.  Yakov nitpicks every articulation.

“Is this meant to be _cantabile_? It doesn’t seem like singing to me,” he says. “All I hear is three-year-olds killing their first cats on one-eighth size violins.”

“Maybe you’re getting old,” a red-haired bassist calls from the left.

“Babicheva!” Lilia yells. “Watch your mouth!”

Yakov grunts in approval.

The bassist, undeterred, mimics an oh-so-sad air violin.

The director sighs, but doesn’t return a comment. “Let’s go back to the pizzicato section. Mimic the harpist,” he advises.

Five minutes afterwards, as the music winds back to the aforementioned _cantabile_ section, Yakov calls the room to a stop again.

“As professional musicians working on a famous song, I’m sure you all know that this is a lively featurette for the brass, woodwinds, and tambourine, not the strings. And in that regard, you’re not achieving the role of the harmony. You must be able to carry the singing line,” Yakov says. “I’m getting the feeling that you don’t know what you’re playing.”

Well, damn. There goes everyone’s self-esteem levels. If Yuuri needed a cue to doubt his musical career, this is it. Celestino was the kind of mentor who’d easily summon hour-long rants about Tchaikovsky’s magnificent ability to balance modern orchestral sounds while embracing a capricious style, but in terms of mistakes, he was more forgiving. Flat-out insults are like punches to the gut.

“Katsuki!” Lilia says suddenly. “You play the line for us. By yourself.”

In utter disbelief that this is actually happening, Yuuri obeys without question, utterly stunned, yet perfectly executing the animated spirit of the Capriccio, save a little nervous blip at the end of the line. It’s virtually the same version he played inappropriately last week, except today, the phrase is completed, and everyone is listening because they were told to.

“That’s the kind of vibrato détaché and singing balance I am looking for, alright?” Yakov says. “Top of the section.”

The orchestra runs it through again, imitating Yuuri. It’s uncanny how quickly sixty or so players seem to emulate his style.

Yakov puts down his baton, looking somewhat satisfied. “Better,” he says, and goes on to describe how the beginnings and ends of the phrases need to sound unbroken.

As soon as Yakov finishes talking, the same blonde violinist from earlier whips around and shoots Yuuri a death glare.

Yuuri almost falls off his chair.

That’s not just anyone; that’s Yuri Plisetsky, last year’s winner of the International Forte Music Competition. He’s a renowned up-and-coming fifteen-year old prodigy violinist, rumored to be Lilia’s favorite tutee, skilled in vicious passagework and pizzicato and false harmonics and dynamic control and _basically everything_. He’s the new kid on the block, the one that everyone says will soon rival Nikiforov in talent and fame, the one that would be making all the classical music tabloids if those existed. The world says that “Yuri Plisetsky” may soon become a household name, the kind that features on Saturday morning classical music radio stations like David Garrett or Itzhak Perlman.

But before Yuuri can dwell on what any of this means, Victor Nikiforov himself arrives on scene, looking effortlessly fabulous in sweatpants and a T-shirt, accessorized by unfairly smooth confidence. Yuuri notices dark circles only partially covered by his platinum fringe.

Victor waltzes into his empty seat, but doesn’t bother to take out his violin or unpack his music, just mutters something incomprehensible to Yakov, who frowns. Then, as if the offhand comment had drained the life force out of him, Victor crosses his legs and puts his head on his chin, shoulders sagging. As Yakov starts the orchestra back up, the concertmaster closes his eyes, and simply listens, as if he’s lounging next to a favorite record after a horrible day at work, for that serene moment of quiet before the neighbors yell through the thin walls to please, turn down the sound. Nobody questions him.

By the end of the afternoon, rehearsal is a fantastic triumph, in Yakov’s words. He takes off his hat and fans himself. “Kubo will be pleased. And your horn soloists will be grateful they no longer have to play with puppet amateurs.”

He lifts his baton for one final run-though. The energy runs through ever slur and staccato, capriciousness personified. Yakov pumps his fist in the air on the last note. “Exactly! Play it just like that! Just like Tchaikovsky wrote it!” He points at Yuuri in the second row. “Just like Katuski played it! Very good!” He closes the score and dismisses the ensemble with a wave.

People start talking. Yuuri hears his name popcorn up all over, notices Victor’s eyebrows furrow slightly as he talks in low undertones to Yuri Plisetsky, sees Phichit giving him two thumbs up.

Maybe Yuuri is redeeming himself, in his second week. Maybe one day he’ll even be able to win a few solos.

Most of the orchestra hurries out the hall, heading back to their apartments or practice rooms or dinner out with the mates. Yuuri waits around for Phichit, who is triple-checking his every social media feed in the presence of good wifi.

Yakov is talking animatedly to his star pupil. He seems to be giving Victor a solid run-down of the afternoon. “And then I was telling Yura how I’d prefer the Italian Capriccio to be properly named a Russian Capr–”

“No. Absolutely not, Yakov!” Victor interrupts, although unenthusiastically. “Opus 45 was inspired by his trip to Italy, and he composed the fantasy based on the melodies and tunes he acquired there. Of course it should be labelled Italian, as he himself intended all along.” He speaks easily, as if he knows Tchaikovsky, but even Lilia, with her permanent judgmental frown, looks like she has to admit his point is valid.

“OH! _That’s_ the one he wrote after the crazy second marriage? The one we’re playing?” Mila wonders, pulling her bass tightly against her hip.

Victor nods his affirmation.

A third party, having finished packing his viola, joins the conversation (Yakov, by now, has been tuned out and has tuned out, himself). “Ah yes, the fateful marriage to Antonina Miliukova! The tragic tale of how even the greatest men and women succumb to society’s constrictions on the freedom of love!”

“Sounds like your kind of romantic overture, Georgi,” Mila returns.

“I think it’d suit Victor better,” Yuri growls, putting on his hood. “Let’s go. I’m starving.”

And before Yuuri can even fathom to imagine what type of conversation just occurred, the Russian troupe literally saunters out the double-doors, Stradivarius cases in hand.

“C’mon, Yuuri,” Phichit says. “No more practice today. Let’s go order some pizza and play a couple rounds of GTA.”

At eleven at night, after Guang-Hong has thoroughly beaten all three of his opponents several times over, Yuuri distinctly remembers that he has an early morning block schedule tomorrow. Whatever. Right now, he’s too happy to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tchaikovsky Italian Capriccio (Opus 45)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ce5qmAj9XX4)   
> 


	3. Rapsodie

The first thing Yuuri notices is that someone is occupying Victor’s seat. First chair, mind you: the concertmaster’s chair, specifically _Victor Nikiforov’s chair_. Nobody ever did that, okay, at least since Yuuri’s been in Kubo Orchestra.

The second thing he notices is that it’s Christophe Giacometti. He’s Kubo Orchestra’s assistant concertmaster and a world-acclaimed violinist in his own right, known for being an incredibly sensitive player that can lure the emotion right out of you. There are also sensationalist rumors that he’s jealous of and/or in love with Victor Nikiforov, but then again, isn’t everyone?

Victor, head bowed over his phone as he walks over, doesn’t notice either of these things until Chris stranger calls his name.

“Concertmaster Nikiforov!”

Victor looks up from his phone and breaks into what Yuuri can only describe as a heart-shaped smile. “Chris! Back so soon?”

“Did you miss me?” Christophe teases. He stands up, drawing himself to a height even taller than Victor, and gives him a close embrace. (Maybe a bit too close, by Yuuri’s standards, but it could be a European thing?) 

“It was my best solo showcase so far,” Christophe says. “Too bad you couldn’t come along.”

“Well, I’m sure you were enthralling, even without me,” Victor replies, taking back his rightful concertmaster chair without a fight. “You always did have a natural affinity for that.”

Christophe laughs and starts unpacking his violin in the seat next to Victor’s. “But I’m glad to be back in the game. The Orchestra would never tour without me, right, Kubo?”

On her podium, the director smiles back. “Of course not,” she says, eyes twinkling behind her glasses. “Who could ever dream of leaving behind Christophe Giacometti?”

“The international fangirls would be _so_ disappointed,” Phichit laments as he walks by with his cello, miming a faint.

“We’d lose nearly all our salary, and we’d all have to cram into a single tour bus,” Victor chimes in.

Yuri Plisetsky groans as he takes his seat next to Christophe. “Being on a bus with you for a few months is bad enough,” he tells Victor. “Don’t tempt fate to make it even worse.”

At Kubo’s request, the orchestra spends two minutes doing breathing exercises, primarily for the winds (but also to meditatively ease the mirth of the strings, who are currently far too hyped up for their own good). Next, they launch into a series of scales and arpeggios, testing range and balance, and then Victor sets the tuning A. Kubo tells Guang-Hong to play a B-flat to tune the woodwinds and brasses, for additional good measure. Soon the entire orchestra is ringing at the same pitch.

“Okay!” Kubo claps her hands together and adjusts the brim of her hat. “Rapsodie Espagnole, everyone! And not the one Chris commissioned,” she says. “We’re playing the Ravel.”

Yuuri likes Maurice Ravel’s Rapsodie Espagnole. It’s an incredible work of colorful orchestration—any more distinct solos and the piece would essentially transform into Britten’s _Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra_. For the most part, the violins simply repeat the haunting chromatic theme as various sections weave in and out of the spotlight. As they run through the second and third movements the sound lifts and falls, captivatingly, the tempo varying to fit a connoisseur’s vibrant taste palette, before breaking free in the final movement for a festival of joyful noise.

For most of the day, they work on balance between the muted strings and soloists. The Crispino twins’ clarinet harmony needs to be brought out; the string glissandos sound too much like static and need to be clearer; the piccolo and cor-anglais both need to be more subtle; the tuba-euphonium entrance is too abrupt. Each new endeavor fixes several elements and reveals more ways to elevate the musicality, like a progress bar without a limit.

At one point, Kubo puts down her baton and tells Victor he needs to follow her tempo. “You seem distracted,” she points out. “Get with the program, please.”

“It’s me,” Christophe says, resting his free hand on Victor’s shoulder. “I’m just irresistible.”

Victor laughs dryly. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

 

* * *

 

 

Guang-Hong’s tone is utterly flawless. Yuuri listens to the oboist’s vibrato, hears it dip and soar and intertwine with the flutes and clarinets, and almost misses his own cue.

When Yuuri studied at the Conservatory, there were always double-reed players attempting to imitate the gorgeous sound of _Morning Mood_ , but always falling flat, either with a scratchy tone or shrill sound. (The running joke dubbed them ducks being run over on the highway.) Only dedication and hard work could yield the sound quality reverberating around the hall: serene and lovely like the delicate blossoming of golden flowers against a painted watercolor backdrop. Guang-Hong is bound to perform an incredible solo, and the orchestra can’t wait to accompany him.

 

* * *

 

 

Before long, they’re on tour.

It’s a ceaseless ritual: twelve to a bus to sleep on the road, and practice or performance taking up every other waking moment of the day.

Maybe it’s because he’s new to all this, but Yuuri’s constantly thrumming with energy, as if on an endless high. He’s always the last to fall asleep on the bus, surrounded by the calmness of drowsy breathing. His fingers feel numb from overexertion, and his back aches from sitting still for too long, but he has never wanted to play as much before.

On the lucky days, they get to occupy a host orchestra’s rooms, get to fill the practice spaces and use the concert halls. Those have become Yuuri’s favorite days. Whenever he can conquer a new seven by seven foot area with the same old familiar tunes, he feels immediately at home within his music. It’s a ritual by now: he takes off his glasses, precariously balances them on the edge of a music stand. Obligatory arpeggios and etudes warm up his fingers; he goes through the complicated new orchestra passagework again, just for good measure. Yuuri plays through the Beethoven’s Concerto in D Major—his final university recital piece—purely by muscle memory, pulling the rubato sections longer than necessary and the presto bits faster than humanly possible, just because he can. He defines the music he plays; he is the sculptor, the wielder, the magician.

He sings, dances, commands all the attention, and builds up the finale with an exuberant flourish for his imaginary audience. The faint hint of sweat lines the nape of his neck, and a triumphant smile lights up his face.

There is a soft, echoing moment… the calm before a storm.

Yuuri revels in his own performance, feeling a quietly modest pride. This is why he went into music, to speak without uttering words from his lips but by conveying the utmost emotion from every stroke of his bow.

Without warning, the practice room’s door handle jerks violently.

Yuuri just about jumps out of his skin and nearly whacks his violin against the wall.

By the time he puts the instrument back in its case and frantically opens the door, the hallway is empty except for a grey blur leaving the double doors under the exit sign.

His not-so-imaginary audience has escaped.

 

* * *

 

 

Kubo cuts the sound with a wave of her hands. “Measures sixty-three and four sound too similar! We can’t have any two notes played exactly the same, so please be careful with your articulations there… okay. Right there again. Sixty-three.”

It’s one of those rare days when the whole orchestra gets to practice as usual in the off-season: full orchestra in the morning, a bit of free time for individual practice, and then sectionals and chamber orchestra in the afternoon. Usually, Yuuri loves full orchestra, just because he can lose himself in the skilled woodwind and brass sound textures, and create that full, colorful quality that only the best symphony orchestras can produce, but today, he can’t wait until break. He had accidentally overslept his first two alarms and only grabbed a couple of granola bars from the empty pantry for breakfast. He’s dying for a cup of coffee, and someone last night (maybe Emil?) had mentioned there was a great famous local hole-in-the-wall nearby.

As per Murphy’s Law, practice just ends up dragging on and on.

Kubo’s explaining to the cellos how they need to be heard as the countermelody, but in a refined way so that they don’t take away from the violin melody. It’s like a secondary afterthought, but one that grabs hold of your imagination and will never let go, although it descends into a thought you can’t quite reach for when it dips below the staff. The bow must resonate, but not fully, and croon, but not delicately… (It’s been a few minutes now, and Phichit looks like he wants to say something but is too afraid to interrupt Kubo.) She then turns towards the violins, virtually repeating the same speech but with interchanged adjectives, and continues to explain how the shape of the line interlaces with the harmonies and accompaniment in a subtle fashion, almost like a shadow that catches up with the falling horizon, almost like a lost puppy that follows you around but occasionally runs ahead, almost like–

“Kubo, I think we understand,” Victor Nikiforov says. “You just want the cellos to veil themselves underneath our sound.”

The conductor pauses mid-sentence. “Actually—yeah. Exactly like that,” she says. “Well then. Top of the section.”

The entire string section gives an audible sigh of relief before setting their bows in place.

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as they finish with _Solveig’s Song_ for the day, Yuuri meets up with the gang and asks them if he can take their orders for coffee. As he heads over to the café and is reaching to open the double-doors, a wild Nikiforov rushes out, holding two cups of coffee larger than his own head. He nearly knocks Yuuri over.

After a few beats, Victor turns around and gives him a single long, searching look. But before Yuuri’s mind can even catch up to what is happening, or even fathom to think of something to say, Victor is halfway down the block.

The next time Yuuri sees a giant cup of coffee is in Christophe’s right hand. It’s identical to the two Victor had purchased previously in the day.

He can’t help but replay the scene from earlier in his head. After having idolized Victor Nikiforov for so long, he had thought his every action would be easy to decipher, but this one sequence had thrown Yuuri into confusion. Why was Victor in such a hurry? Why did he have two cups? Was he waiting for someone? Was someone waiting for him? Why did he choose that café? How did he get there so quickly after rehearsal? What was his favorite drink?

Actually, Yuuri already knows the answer to that last one. He remembers hearing it once in an old archived interview. White chocolate cappuccino.

But, still! The point is: Victor Nikiforov is still a mystery. (A good-looking one at that: Yuuri’s up-close-and-personal vantage point in reality nearly gave him a heart attack.)

Christophe’s on the phone, talking animatedly behind a pair of sunglasses. “No, I think going ahead with the music would be a great plan,” he says. “I’ve told you _every single day_ since I got here, okay? I’m positive he’s going to _love_ —no, adore—it.”

With that, Christophe hangs up and throws his phone on the duvet. Yuuri’s eyes follow the sparkling tiger print motif of his phone case as it tumbles onto the cot.

“Ugh,” Christophe says, eyeing Yuuri thoughtfully. “Musicians are just _so_ extra all the time. I’m probably not one to talk, but like seriously? Some people need to seriously chill.”

He lounges backwards, face unreadable behind his expensive shades. Just a minute later, _Toxic_ starts blasting from his phone, and he sighs as he answers the call.

 

* * *

 

 

Some days, he wishes he was a famous professional who could just walk around and play anything and just get tremendous amounts of money thrown at him. But not everyone’s as lucky as Hilary Hahn, and Kubo is one of the greatest orchestras on earth, so he shouldn’t complain. The only issue is that at such a high echelon of performance expectations, every single note must be critiqued and fixed. Oftentimes it’s a transition passage, say with the horns and euphoniums, and the strings make bets on how long Kubo will spend to perfect the chord’s intonation.

Other times, he remembers that he’s nearly always within a dozen feet of Victor Nikiforov, and everything is worth it again.

 

* * *

 

Each night’s concert is unique and thrilling, from the moment Victor walks onstage in his tailored suit and classy bowtie to the final raucous encore cheers. The program is never identical, and the music seems to evolve mid-performance. The solos are tantalizing; the changes are subtle so that you don’t notice the variation until it’s already swept past you. Experts attempt to analyze the different pieces, to fit the sections together through a reductionist method à la Descartes, but find it too mesmerizing to understand how the holistic entirety can be created.

Yuuri stands up with the orchestra and puts on his brightest smile. Even if he can’t see them clearly without his glasses, he can tell the audience is exhilarated, and as a result, so is he. Satisfaction stems from the ability to play keystone masterworks at this level.

This is what Yuuri signed up for.

This is the stuff Kubo Orchestra is made of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rapsodie Espagnole by Maurice Ravel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SqDD4vjZJfw)   
>  [Morning Mood by Edvard Grieg (aka every waking up scene ever)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cy_SNKVi_0E)   
> 


	4. Symphony

On the last day of tour, Lee Seung-gil walks onto the bus and announces he’s going to play Rhapsody in Blue.

Everyone immediately looks up; even the heads deeply vested in the intense daily poker match turn to stare at the impassive pianist.

For a while, nobody moves.

Then, someone ventures to say, “I mean, dude… do you even like jazz?”

And Seung-gil doesn’t respond. He stalks to the back of the bus, face deadpan, betraying absolute no sense of emotion, like some sort of stoically nonchalant moonlit prince or something.

Or, at least, that’s the wording Phichit uses as he describes it to Yuuri.

“And immediately, everyone just started talking about the Concerto Prix! The entire place was buzzing with people announcing the pieces they wanted to perform,” Phichit says excitedly with an obligatory snap of his fingers. “It’s all like, so infectious! I mean, even I signed up for it too!”

Yuuri backpedals furiously, completely lost. “Wait, what?”

Phichit grins, eyes bright, and breaks it all down to his best friend with a crumpled flyer and an invisible air flowchart. Apparently, every year after tour season, Kubo Orchestra hosts a competition to select any member of the orchestra as a featured soloist. It’s an intense evaluation process that boils down to a single winner. Over the years, it’s become known to the musicians as the Concerto Prix, due to the fact that most candidates audition with their instrument-specific concertos. Historically, it has brought a variety of not-so-prominent musicians into the spotlight, but in recent years the event has been all but dominated by Victor Nikiforov.

“So basically, what we as an audience didn’t know was that Victor Nikiforov was secretly winning the Prix every year behind the scenes in order to feature in most of those concerts,” Phichit explains.

Yuuri smiles inwardly, and can’t help but admire his idol even more. Talent requires constant refreshing, and evidently Victor Nikiforov is constantly fashioning pure art out of his craft. His concertmaster chair and numerous solos obviously result from a meritocracy, not a lazily gifted monarchy. “He just never fails to keep going… to keep surprising me,” Yuuri says aloud, wonderfully dreamily despite himself.

Phichit laughs, sounding positively angelic. “And remember when you always said you fantasized you could solo just the way Victor did onstage? Well! Now you can go for it, because I already signed you up, too!”

It takes four seconds for Yuuri to start screaming. Phichit just beams. He’s used to this kind of reaction by now.

 

* * *

 

 

The new concert lineup is a mix of old favorites for new listeners, including the likes of Flight of the Bumblebee and Swan Lake. In Yuuri’s opinion, playing famous pieces is actually more difficult than playing rare gems, because nearly anybody can pick out a wrong note amid a well-known passage. He shudders to remember that one time he forgot the key signature to the slow movement of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. Everyone and their extended family in the audience could pick out his wrong C#.

But alas, renowned names draw crowds, and everybody enjoys a familiar tune, so Kubo brings out tomes of music that nearly every orchestra on earth owns.

The original score in front of Yuuri looks like it has survived through several wars—the fold of the paper is worn out and crumbling—it has definitely seen better days. But it is, after all, a classic. Ever since its premiere in 1928, _Bolero_ has become Maurice Ravel’s most recognized melody, and it’s also been a track played on repeat around the Katsuki household. His mother was a big fan of the repetitive tune, and would often hum along to countermelodies while cleaning or cooking. Who knows—maybe she’ll be part of the crowd one of these days. Yuuri could even arrange to score some VIP tickets, find them a private box up near the balcony or something…

The sharp end of a bow digs into the small of his back, and Yuuri is grateful for whichever second violin reminds him to start counting his measures.

That timeless _pizzicato_ fills the hall, and Yuuri swears he sees Yuri Plisetsky bopping his head along to the beat. Not that the kid’ll ever admit it, though. (Too cool for old-school music.)

 

* * *

 

 

Kubo forbids anyone from discussing the Concerto Prix during practice, and Yuuri can now see why. It seems that nearly everyone is obsessed with the idea of playing with the best backing orchestra on earth. There seems to be so much talent that he finds it impossible to only choose one soloist to place bets on, and besides, he wishes everyone could win! Everyone has their own stories and motivations, just like Yuuri himself.

Guang-Hong says he’s always been intimidated by the idea of the Prix, but that this year, especially after becoming oboe section leader and playing all those in-piece solos, he’s ready to try out.

Leo tells everyone he’s going to write his own cadenza for originality points, because there are only so many horn concertos out there that everyone gets tired of hearing them.

Emil believes his saxophone concerto will outperform Michele’s traditional clarinet one. In the current scheme of things, perhaps techno android rock will be better than some old baroque knightly procession. Or at least that’s what he theorizes.

Michele curtly reminds Emil that he has to double on clarinet on most days because no orchestra appreciates the chainsaw scratching of a saxophone.

Georgi has already dedicated his oeuvre to his ex-girlfriend.

Chris hints at the fact that maybe this year, he’ll finally be able to top Victor for once.

Some hotheaded trumpet player prints out and hands the sheet music parts to his piece to every orchestra member because “You all better start practicing ahead of time for my performance if you want your technique to match up with mine!” (Someone has suggested an open bonfire. Yuri Plisetsky flips the guy off every time he sees him.)

 

* * *

 

 

Everyone knows Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Its opening chords are known as the four most famous notes in music history. Its passages are full of vigor, the energy barreling through transposed C minor motifs. The relentless power is interrupted by surprising moments of clear quiet before the storm once again takes hold. The notes on the page demand its players to _play_.

The first measure is already the climax, and then it just continues to build, and build, and build. It is bold, impassioned, stormy, heroic. Children love to sing along to it; critics love to squeeze endless details out of it; orchestras love the thrill of expressing it.

Yuuri’s bow drags with pent-up urgency, callously amid the orchestra’s textured sound until the clouds fall away to reveal a single beam of light: a high C, played solely by the first violins. The group collectively exhales as Kubo cuts off the line and moves onto the softer echo. She compliments some ‘Altin’ bassoonist on his perfect double-reed sound that just adds an incredible sense of unease to the music, and tells the horns they should try to imitate that quality.

They start up again, deep and dark and dramatic.

Sometimes Yuuri wonders if he plays the notes, or if the notes play him. He just can’t help but be lost to the deafening crash of the music. Right now, it feels like he’s floating.

 

* * *

 

 

Mari comes to visit, and she brings along a Costco-sized case of instant ramen.

“Sorry I couldn’t bring homemade katsudon,” she tells her brother. “Tupperware is heavy enough as it is.”

She pulls out a jar and uncaps the lid, and a savory nostalgia wraps itself around Yuuri. They end up chatting the day away, talking about family and jobs. Mari asks about travelling around the world, and tells a short story of how the Katsukis actually went to go see a local performance a few months back.

“They wish they could tell you in person how proud they are,” she says. “Your photo is hung up literally everywhere back home. Mom and Dad actually told me to bring you something healthy and substantial because they’re worried about your eating habits.”

Yuuri waves it off and thanks his sister again and again for the katsudon-flavored soup base.

“Nah, don’t sweat it. I would only ever give you food I was positive you’d enjoy. And hey—don’t stress out too much. Your worry lines are showing,” she points out with a laugh as he pushes her out the door.

It’s nice to have a taste of home. Oh, that reminds Yuuri. He should call his parents sometime soon.

 

* * *

 

 

Some people say that classical music ends with the turn of the 20th century. Yuuri would argue to at least go up to 1902: the publication of Scott Joplin’s _The Entertainer_. The syncopated two-step rag is among Yuuri’s favorite tunes ever, period. He imagines dressing up with Charlie Chaplin as a style icon, complete with a top hat and coattails, or imitating Glenn Miller with his slick, classy suits, and pretends he’s in a ballroom, watching flappers waltz by.

The arrangement Kubo bought is a variation on the more famous piano solo. It branches out different details in the classic piccolo, clarinet, trumpet, and bass chamber setup, creating a truly full sound that just makes one want to get up and dance. With a composition like that, almost everybody leaves the room smiling.

 

* * *

 

 

Yuuri is leafing through some of Phichit’s preliminary concerto choices when the drama starts.

The two best friends are discussing potential solo options in what they had originally thought was a secluded hallway, but apparently not.

Phichit is barely able to squeak out “Heads up, two Russians just rounded the corner!” when the tremelo of the intruders’ voices starts echoing down the hall.

They spot two telltale flawless heads of auburn and platinum hair deeply engrossed in conversation.

It’s Victor and Mila.

Yuuri’s heart sinks, although he would never admit it. As they approach, he thinks of all the sweet nothings Victor could be whispering into her ear: how lovely she looks, how beautifully she plays, how perfect she is… He shivers reflexively, and Phichit shoots him a worried glance, but Yuuri simply pretends to be absorbed by his reading. He studiously does not look up. Does not look up. Does not–

The two stop right in front of Yuuri, tailored shoes cutting into his line of vision.

“I don’t know what you see in him, Vitya,” Mila says, “but I expect to hear all about it very, very soon!”

And just like that, she turns on her heels and walks away.

Victor Nikiforov shrugs and puts his hands in his pockets. Yuuri looks up his impossibly tall, slender frame, not meeting his eyes.

“So. Katsuki Yuuri.”

Yuuri jumps back, back pressing into the wall, and sweat begins to bead on his forehead. He has never loved the way his name sounded so much before, like a prayer on Victor’s lips.

“Have you decided on something for the Prix yet?”

“I…” Yuuri falters, as he often does when Victor Nikiforov is within earshot. “Um, no. I mean, I have some ideas, but like they’re not finalized or anything, but–”

Enter Phichit to save the day.

“Yuuri’s been pretty much set on Beethoven from Day One,” Phichit supplies. “D Major—I’m sure you know the one.”

Yuuri tries for a shaky smile, avoiding any and all eye contact, prepared for the inevitable strikedown. But contrary to his predictions, Victor’s eyes honest-to-god _sparkle_. “Oh, the D Major? What a classic! Excellent choice… in fact, it’s one of my absolute favorites, and not everyone can play it to my critical listening standards. I know you can pull it off for sure though.”

If Phichit wasn’t there as a witness, Yuuri is certain he would have easily convinced himself that compliment was self-dreamt. It’s right up there with the time Yuuri dreamed his idol showed up stark-naked in his family’s onsen. (So, so, so very embarrassing and yet…)

Yuuri’s still gaping when Victor crouches down in front of him and takes both of his hands in his own. (Yes, that’s right: _Victor_ took both Yuuri’s hands _in his own_. The alarms have begun to go off in poor Yuuri’s head from all the fanboy overstimulation.)

In a silky almost-whisper, Victor looks him straight in the eyes, and says the unimaginable:

“I know you’re beyond talented already, but I can push you even further. I’ll take you to Concerto Prix Final, and I’ll make sure you _win_ ,” Victor says, with the utmost conviction. “I’ll make it something you will never, ever forget.”

Yuuri’s brain short-circuits. It seems he has suddenly lost the ability to speak. He’s not sure if it’s from the proximity or the implications, but either way, he is definitely one-hundred percent screwed.

After a few beats, when Yuuri doesn’t respond, Victor lets go and stands back up, looking the slightest bit deflated.

“Well, let me know what you think in a few days, okay? You can tell Chris—he can pass the message on to me,” he says, and disappears like the god he is.

Oh, dear lord have mercy.

Phichit is kind enough to allow Yuuri a moment of silence before legitimately laughing out loud.

“Well, didn’t _that_ escalate quickly!” Phichit exclaims. “I mean, that’s just an offer you can’t refuse,” he tells Yuuri. “Private instructor _Victor Nikiforov_! Like, seriously! Which aspiring violinist on earth wouldn’t _kill_ for something like that?”

Yuuri sighs forlornly. “I can’t face him again! He thinks I’m some incapable scum of the earth.”

“Wow,” Phichit says, deadpan. “I never knew that ‘scum’ in Russian translated to ‘absolute legend.’”

Yuuri facepalms, and refuses to budge, even when Phichit threatens to break his violin. “Come _on_! Don’t give me that look. You know it’s going to be the best few months of your life. Even better than our prank war back in Detroit!”

Yuuri takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. How is he supposed to survive the next few months if he can’t even make it through the rest of the day knowing what just happened?

Suddenly, the door slams back open, and Yuri Plisetsky storms in, dragging Victor behind him.

Yuri sounds absolutely appalled. “You promised, and now you’re throwing all you said away!” he cries indignantly. “How dare you?!”

Despite being screamed at, Victor looks impeccable as ever. He manages a sheepish smile and a shrug, and Yuri explodes.

“You said you would mentor my Concerto Prix audition, may I remind you, _two years ago_ ,” he growls roughly. “I have been waiting for this for my entire life, before I was even able to join Kubo! I was supposed to make my debut as the new star violinist, the likes of which this world had never seen. And now you take back your words because you say you were quote-unquote _inspired_ by some Japanese kid? Well I’m here to tell you that the world is not big enough for the two of us.”

By now, Yuri is only two feet away, staring down at the Yuuri on the floor. He raises an accusing finger at Yuuri, who is involuntarily trembling. (Victor, a few paces away, is now trembling too.)

“Go on,” Yuri tells Victor. “Tell this pig you’re not teaching him _anything_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Bolero by Maurice Ravel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LwLABSm0yYc)  
> [Beethoven's Fifth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OGnBrabqdP4)  
> [The Entertainer by Scott Joplin (piano/chamber version)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hKeUurQ6sF8%20)  
>  (i may have gone overboard with the description on this one... maybe i'll thin it out in the future)


	5. Sonata

There’s a weird thrill that comes before a competition—any audition, really. Butterflies in the stomach isn’t nearly enough to describe it. It feels a little like skewed tunnel vision, to the point of nausea. It’s exhilarating, yes, but just like a zero gravity rollercoaster moment, the fear of imminent death seems only two feet away.

When one has practiced for so much time, playing is almost like mindlessly ghosting your fingers over the required notes, letting your hands do the work you’ve already drilled.

But the overwhelming stress can cause a slip, miss a key, drag a string…

“Yuuri!”

His head snaps up just in time to see a Nikiforov-sized ball of utter excitement flying towards him. Yuuri is careful to hold his cherished violin out of the way as Victor envelops him in a giant hug.

“You’ll play beautifully,” Victor assures him as he pulls away. “Just don’t rush the end of the Beethoven—keep it lilting, charming, graceful.”

Yuuri hums in agreement, running through the passionate scale passages in his head. It’s the preliminaries for the Concerto Prix—the one where Kubo thins out the applicants to twelve or so qualifying musicians, whom will then be judged competitively side by side. It’s very casual, to be honest—the musicians don’t even play with an accompanying piano. Yuuri’s one of the final names on the list, and while he’s dying to get the audition over with, he needs to prove himself a worthy contender, especially now that Yuri Plisetsky has vowed to overtake him.

Yuri keeps giving him dark looks in rehearsal as if to not only accuse him of removing Victor from the competition but claiming him personally. People start talking about Victor’s abstinence this season, and some connect the dots to Yuuri, forming fanciful stories about a renewed affair and whatnot. (Phichit has been sworn to secrecy for the time being.) And Yuuri’d be lying if he didn’t admit the thrill of it all.

The truth is less cinematic: every evening, after chamber orch rehearsal, Yuuri heads over to the Concertmaster’s designated practice room and works on his concerto and sonata with Victor, surrounded by glossy polaroids of Makkachin pinned to corkboards on every wall. A typical practice simply involves run-throughs and critical feedback. At first, Yuuri was rather startled by Victor’s hands-on approach, but now he’s gotten used to falling into his guidance.

“You have to lean into the notes,” Victor would say, running a hand down Yuuri’s bow, sending involuntary shivers down his spine. “Trust them to catch you.”

Or, he’d play a line and instruct Yuuri to imitate the sound. “Try to stretch for the top note, but don’t let it sound like you’re reaching…” And they’d repeat it over and over and over again.

Occasionally, Victor would just lean back at his desk and listen, eyes closed. Yuuri could see the tension building up and letting go in Victor’s shoulders as he approached and completed each cadence progression, could see the way he’d smile at the end of dulcet lines and Picardy thirds, and would wonder how in the world he got so lucky.

Although it didn’t always feel this way. Yuuri never fully felt like he deserved such an opportunity

Victor had begun their first lesson by putting an old score on the stand in front of Yuuri.

“You know the theory that Paganini was the devil in disguise?”

Yuuri had nodded. It’s basically a bedtime story for violinists, after all.

“Well, the obsession with music from hell began long before his century,” Victor had said. “And this sonata is the one you’ll play to prove that it continues to this day.”

He flipped over to the first page, where _Devil’s Trill Sonata_ was written across the top in bold calligraphy, with _G. Tartini_ in small print underneath.

Yuuri had stepped back, slightly startled. “I can’t… I can’t play this kind of thing,” he said forlornly. “I don’t have the kind of passion to seduce the listener.”

Victor just laughed. “And do you know what music I gave Yurio? The Debussy Sonata! His expression was more priceless than yours!” He looked at Yuuri intently. “Do you think you can become the star of the Kubo Orchestra by playing the same old notes you’re used to? Is an ordinary perennial flower more beautiful than a stranger’s rose?”

And that was that, even if Yuuri doubted the logic. He wouldn’t dare question Nikiforov quotes—what seemed like common sense to Victor was any other violinist’s textbook material.

Yet Victor seemed to enjoy when Yuuri took control of his own music.

One day, he had paused after the _Larghetto affettuoso_ movement of his sonata when Victor suddenly stood up.

“Tell me what you were thinking about.”

Yuuri reddened. “I– um, ah– I was trying to pretend I was Tartini selling my soul to the devil, you know… like how he said he composed it, in his dream?”

Victor’s face fell, if subtly. “Alright,” he said, not meeting Yuuri’s eyes. “I just thought I recognized how enraptured you looked there for a moment… Anyways, it sounded like you finally put your signature on the page. You’re not here to play like Oistrakh or anyone. You’re here to play for… for yourself.”

That’s what Yuuri tells himself now in his head. It’s a trick Celestino had told him, back in the day: reassure yourself based on actual advice and compliments people have given you.

He reminds himself how excited young violinists like Kenjirou Minami were when he gave a masterclass workshop at their local academy. They wanted to hear him play; they loved to hear him play.

He reminds himself how Phichit would show up to all his competitions with a new Victor Nikiforov photo (chances were, he’d already seen the picture before, but it was the thought that counted) to put in his music binder.

He reminds himself of the way Victor looked that one time, yearning for the shadow of something he could never touch, and hopes to God he can duplicate that feeling in someone else today.

Now is the first round. It’s Yuuri’s first chance, and technically last one, so he can’t blow it. He has prepared for so long, with all his heart and soul, with so much time and effort…

The door opens and Christophe steps out, looking flushed but pleased. He closes the door and gives Victor a wink and Yuuri an encouraging thumbs-up before leaving down the hallway.

The hall is silent for a few moments save the shuffling of papers.

And then Kubo’s voice calls from behind the door: “Katsuki Yuri, violin?”

He stops pacing, takes a deep breath, and steps in without looking back.

Victor looks like he’s about to say something as the door opens and closes, but by then, Yuuri’s already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Yurio's Debussy Violin Sonata](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5_iNG9XcDCo)   
>  [Yuuri's Devil's Trill Sonata](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z7rxl5KsPjs)   
>  [Yuuri's Beethoven’s Concerto in D Major](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LD_CaKUqsgE%20)   
> 


End file.
